Page 3 of Tutoring Mr. Hotshot

I never wanted to be like that. My dream has always been to do more.

At first, I had no idea what that more was. Now it's clear as day.

I want to be a professional hockey player. I want to reach the level that seems so unattainable.

But I know I can get there.

All it takes is keeping up the dedication that got me here. I've made it this far. This is America. I'm going to college on scholarship. And I'm on a team that's set to do great things this year.

We will win the big Independence Conference game. I know it.

I bet that’ll get some scouts out if we work hard. It would probably be wise to get my degree as something to fall back on too though.

If I can't be in the NHL, then I might be forced to go home to Russia. I'm not good at anything else.

“The guys are on their way,” Coach says with a slap to my back. “Why don't you go ahead and put that thing on? It'll make them like you a little more.”

He chuckles as he walks off down the hall, leaving me with the atrocious green fabric in my hands. I miss the bold red of my team back home, though team was not what we really were. I played hard. The others worked to get the puck to me each time.

Still, I would miss those guys and the clearly better color choices they made.

Once I flip the jersey over my head, I’ll forget all about its color. All I have to do is keep my eyes up and not look down. Easy to do considering I was 6'5" and built bigger than most grown men. I'd been that way since my twelfth birthday.

I hear the outer doors of the locker room slam open, then the shuffling of feet. The first guy that comes in has shaggy brown hair and a cocky grin.

"You must be the big Russian beast. The tough guy of the ice. The one who will be our savior.” His speech makes the others laugh.

I ignore him as I look over the other players. They are equally as plain with simple hair and pale skin. There's one young man in the back with brown skin. He stands out among the others.

Not only because he looks as if he lays out in the sun often, but also because of the rest of him. His hair is braided to his scalp like I've seen some of the women back home do. The reminder sends a bolt of homesickness through me.

Maybe together we'll find a kindred friendship over being the odd ones out.

If it weren't for my size, I would still look different. I'm all muscle and my skin is ghostly pale. Add to it my jet-black hair and the scar that runs across the side my forehead through the edge of my eyebrow, and you get one scary-looking person.

It's always been hard to make friends, especially when people want to prove that they're the toughest person around. Exhibit A being the guy in front of me who's still spouting off jokes that I have no intention of listening to.

I turn my back on him as I stuff everything into the locker Coach gave me. Before the team gets too worked up, Coach comes back into the room and whistles.

Everyone turns to face him. Their expressions focused.

“Glad to see you're all here.” He looks around the room. “Well, almost all of you. Anyone know where Parnap is?”

“I'm here, Coach.”

I watch as a guy pushes his way through the crowd. He looks almost identical to the guy who was giving me crap earlier. They have to be related. Brothers or cousins.Something.

They share a look as Parnap positions himself beside the other guy. It’s as if they communicate without words.

I turn my focus back to Coach because I know whatever he's about to say is important.

“Glad to see you could join us, Liam. Next time be on time or I'll have you skate laps until you puke. Maybe take a cue from your brother. He got here early.”

He nods and salutes him. “Yes, Coach!”

Coach shakes his head, then goes down the plan for the day. “I want everyone dressed out and on the ice in ten. We're going to run a few drills and get an idea of Andry's presence on the ice. From there, we’ll look at the lineup to see who's going to be first and second line. Some of you might have to move around and change your spots. You will not bitch and moan about it or you will be benched. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Coach.” The men shout as a chorus.

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